


Nest

by lfNidusPrime (goldenboisinsauce)



Series: Ravenous [1]
Category: Warframe
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Pregnancy, Self-Mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 23:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30063048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenboisinsauce/pseuds/lfNidusPrime
Summary: Nidus only creates destruction. No matter how.
Relationships: Nidus/Nox
Series: Ravenous [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2218143
Kudos: 5





	Nest

**Author's Note:**

> don't know how to tag this on mobile, it doesn't let me add custom tags. it do be a little fucked up, unconventional and unintentional breeding, improvised coat hanger shit, and other sources of brain rot.

Forward.

Each step. A path of destruction. Each step, sustenance.

Hold.

Bring them closer to death. Closer to us.

Connect.

A blessing. Bestow it on one waiting for us. Our blood, our pain, our strength, becomes theirs. 

Spread.

We thrive, we've created ourselves. For one purpose. To destroy.

  
Taking a step. Men of armor. Gutteral tongue. Same face. Blades. Ballistic pellets.  
One spills toxins likes us, charges at us, laughs at us. Glass face. Weapons do little to him, he taunts us. Pins us to the ground. Poison us.   
Deep feeling to connect, when he mounts. His body large, suffocating, comforting.  
Dragging hands across armor, feeling what seperates us from him. Tracing grooves, finding gaps between his shell.  
He understands. He laughs, large hand wrapping around our neck. Dragging us away, a small room. Has machine in it. Loud. Drowns out our voices from the rest.

Want to share blood, pain, strength in front of rest. Helpless.

Heavy body presses on us. Moves against us. Taunting laughter turns to animalistic grunts. We still search for gaps, weakness, a place to share. Distracted.  
His body changes, between his legs. Hardening like armor. Grunts, louder. Rutting harder. Follow him, imitate. Sharing without connecting, sharing only through touch. His grip tightens around our neck. Our hands stop searching, instead inspecting his growth. He breathes hard, then wheezes on his own poison. He fumbles, he brings one hand away from our neck. Brings it to just above this growth, pulls away leather skin. Exposes new skin, mottled, decaying. Growth falls out, flushed, pulsating. Inviting to connect.  
Take the chance, share everything through the link. Our string threads into his skin, he shudders. He lets go. He becomes slack over us.   
We push up against his growth, hands inspecting it, pulling and tugging. He shares this sensation unknowingly, phantom feeling from between our own legs. It secretes at the end. He pants, like one of their beasts. We feel tightness in our depths.

Taking a blade, we intend to share our pain. He never sees, as we slice it across our rising and falling chest. It hurts. He reacts. He knows it hurt.   
We take the blade, again, digging it into one arm, twisting. He growls, snatching the blade away, tossing it aside. His hands return, one around our face, the other pinning our arms above our head. He continues to create friction, heat, that tightness in our depths. A tightness we need to release.  
A sound escapes from our throat, not unlike his moans. He laughs at this, fingers squeezing at our face. We follow him again, in attempt to bring an ending to this feeling closer.  
He lift our legs, bringing them together, pressing them in to his shoulder. Growth pushes between our thighs, in and out. Something primal awakens, a deep and ancient memory written between each vein and nerve of us. 

The tightness explodes. It spills, a white viscous fluid paint both of our chests. He shouts like he's in pain, but not quite. He falls flat over us again in his own volition, heavily breathing as the dust settles. His art seeps in to our pores, something begins to grow. We continue to grow from it.  
A tendril sprouts from our fingers to reach for the discarded blade, brings it back. We need to bury it, deep in to the center of our chest. We roll out from under him, then stab ourselves.  
He chokes, but can't move.  
Again. Again. His blood decorates the inside of his glass face in beautiful splatters.  
Again, deeper.

He falls silent. The connection ends.

But the enemy is still within us. We feel his extension begin to writhe in us, it forms quickly. We need to purge him, kill and destroy all remnants of him.   
We scream as we try to expel it, remove it. It clings, it latches to our center, our heart, our vessel. The blade is needed.  
We take it, dig. Keep digging. His toxin seeps through us, burns at our veins, taints us. It buries itself deeper.  
We run. Tearing through the crowd. Need to escape.  
They fire, bullets graze us. His remnants hungers, as they grow inside. Need to ignore it, starve it out.  
Tall woman, metal legs. She fires relentlessly. Knocks us over. We try to get up to run.   
Beasts grip at us with their teeth, at our neck. Shaking their heads, tearing our tendons. Need to escape, now.  
Getting up, small woman, sends a hook, grapples our leg. We hit the floor. Again. Blades at our back. We bleed.  
Inside he still grows. He kicks, twists. We are disgusted.   
Rather destroy ourselves, than foster another.  
Another scream, we spill our insides, more so than usual. Entrails for unknown purpose fall out of us, a nest exposed as a blade tears us open. Welcomed pain, they will destroy their own.  
Proof of his presence tumbles out. Small. No bigger than a fist. Mouthless, eyes knitted shut by strings of sickly flesh. No fingers, no legs. Skin mottled. Skin decaying.  
Some of them stop. Stare. Beasts bare their fangs at it.

We take the chance. Abandon his poison. Freedom.

But he is many. His seed of destruction is ruthless. Won't leave, like the rest of them in this solar system, produced by machines over and over. Clones, like ourselves. 

He writhes. He kicks. He forms quickly.

**Author's Note:**

> degenerates like me belong on a cross.  
> might be a series, might not.


End file.
